


The Head of a Pin

by websandwhiskers



Category: Supernatural, Thor (2011)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Vignette, genfic, weird coincidences make the world go 'round
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/websandwhiskers/pseuds/websandwhiskers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki meets Loki.  Or something like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Head of a Pin

Loki has been studying the amber depths of his glass more than drinking when the creature who is not a man sits beside him.

It's a construct, a created servant, he guesses, of Midgard's own all-Father (who he hears is even more distant and difficult to please than his own would-be father - though with a sense of humor Loki can appreciate, at the dark bottom of several glasses such as the one he holds.) The creature is veiled in layers upon layers of illusion, enough to hide what it is from, perhaps, any eyes but Loki's - but such things are familiar to him, and easily recognized. The Angel smells of pagan magic and wounds newly healed, beneath his mortal guise. He could feel a stab of pity for this thing, caged in a skin not its own, but then it speaks.

"So," it says, "I hear you're the guy whose name I've been using. In some circles."

"What name is that?" Loki asks his glass, and considers being elsewhere - except that he's abysmally aware of the limits of such thinking. There are a finite number of elsewheres, and they have a retched habit of turning into here. He takes a slow, burning sip - more wetting his tongue than anything else.

"The one you're _not_ using, at the present," it replies. "As for what circles, you know the types. Demons with delusions of grandeur, mostly. You know what they say about names." 

Loki does; he sips. 

"It's a bad plan, you know," says the Angel. 

Loki slants his eyes sideways. 

"Just saying," it says, holding its hands up; its form is unassuming to an almost ridiculous extreme, short and soft about the middle. Its eyes show the something different; they're old and war-weary and, in their depths . . . 

. . . in their depths, kind. Loki sees something that makes him think of his brother. It hurts in ways it shouldn't, not now the truth is known to him. 

"What can you know of planning, Messenger?" Loki asks; wants to shout, and so instead whispers. 

"That it ends badly," says the Angel, voice flat and hard. 

"All plans?" Loki asks, quirking his lips. "Every one?" The light refracts on the liquid in his glass, spinning rainbows to nowhere. He _is_ elsewhere; he still is where he is and it isn't good enough and, he suspects, never will be. This creature beside him is telling him nothing he doesn't already know, but what else is there? Some things aren't planned, Loki wants to say, some things are all instinct and quietly screaming terror, a trapped beast gnawing off its own leg, and no one's had the kindness to come along and shoot him. But that's too close to honesty, and look where the truth has gotten him, and he can still feel the teeth of the trap somewhere in the base of his skull. 

"Just the ones that start with meaning well," the Angel says, signals the bartender, and asks for a strawberry daiquiri. "Or with getting even," he adds, after a pause; Loki knows that he sees the faintly derisive, assuming look that the bartender gives the Angel, though he may miss the half mocking, half pitying look the bartender shoots Loki - who he presumes is disinterested in what he presumes the angel is offering. Loki briefly ponders the merits of causing some mishap to befall an ignorant bartender, but the angel says, "Or proving yourself. Or more or less anything that has to do with family," and he's distracted. 

"You have no family," Loki lashes out.

"I sincerely wish," the Angel replies without pause. "You're not mortal enough to think family's all about gene codes." 

The bartender, returning with the Angel's fruity drink, pauses and looks momentarily taken aback. Loki smirks, takes another sip of his scotch, eyes the pink drink sideways, and says, "I think I'd like one of those."

The mortal man mumbles something acquiescent and hurries off, thoroughly off-kilter; sometimes the smallest things are every bit as satisfying as the most intricate of schemes - the possibility of a moment, caught and twisted. 

The great irony of that - of his very existence - isn't lost on Loki. He wonders what, if anything, he inherited from his true father. 

From the considering look he's receiving from the Angel, he isn't alone in his comprehension. 

"I'm the last person to tell you to go home," the Angel says, with a tone of finality and, perhaps unsurprisingly, sincerity. "All I'm saying is, you let go - so _let go_." 

There is a stir of magic, a sound like wings, and then the Angel - and the daiquiri - are gone. 

Loki wonders idly what the bartender is going to think of that. 


End file.
